


Promise of Life

by stargatefan_archivist



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Gen, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-10-07 11:43:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10359642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stargatefan_archivist/pseuds/stargatefan_archivist
Summary: SPOILERS: Stargate, the movieJack reflects





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Yuma, the archivist: this work was originally archived at [Stargatefan.com](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Stargatefan.com). To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [StargateFan Archive Collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/StargateFan_Archive_Collection).

Promise of Life

The weight of the gun in my hand was a promise that I clutched with white knuckled intensity. It had grown hot in my fist. I have no idea how long I had been staring at it. Time meant little to me. Every once in a while I would hear a muffled bang from downstairs. Sarah was slamming things around again. I knew she was angry, hurting. But I couldn't seem to feel anything for her. I couldn't feel anything beyond the knot of my own pain. 

I tore my gaze away from the weapon in my hand to the room around me. Sunlight fell through the window, pooling on the colorful bedspread before me. Dust motes danced in the sun beams, taunting me. There was a lot of dust in the room. It coated the head board, the toy box, the book shelves. Dust was the only thing the abandoned baseball mitt would ever catch again. Sarah couldn't bring herself to stay in the room long enough to clean it properly. I didn't care. I came to sit on the cold bed and stare at the hot gun in my hand as the dust settled over everything, including my soul. 

My gaze drifted to the grinning face in the frame on the desk. Others might see a happy child laughing into the camera. All I saw was the promise of a life cut too terribly short. The weight of the gun tugged my attention back to where it lay against my faded blue jeans like a dark stain. 

Another stain spread across my mind. I didn't have the strength to push it away. Even when I did manage to shove it down, it hovered just under the surface waiting to bleed back into my conscious thoughts. It seeped across my world turning the yellow sunlight into a bright ugly red. The figures on the bedspread reshaped themselves into a lone figure, laying crumpled on the grass. A small body looking lost in the widening puddle of blood. The copper tang of it mixed with the stench of gun powder to poison the air in my mouth. The gun barrel glistened on the ground where his hand had dropped it. The same hand that had slipped, warm and trusting, into mine as we walked home from practice the week before. The same hand that should have held a puppy's leash, a calculator, my car keys, an engagement ring. A hand that should have never ever held his father's gun. 

It was my side arm, my responsibility. Maybe it was my release. As if on its own accord, the gun rose. The sunlight glinted off the metal. My hand was steady. I had only to tighten my finger to end the pain, to join my little boy beyond the reach of regret. 

The doorbell rang, followed by the sound of someone on the stairs. Muffled footsteps drew closer to the bedroom door. I heard voices, Sarah's cigarette rough tones with a man's deeper one. I slipped the gun under the pillow as the door was opened by my wife to admit two men in uniform. Duty called. 

Through an impossible stone circle, there was a threat that could destroy the world. So I went. I had hoped to find my release in a blaze of glory, but a dweeb of a scholar stopped me. "I don't want to die. It's a shame you are in such a hurry to," he said as he stood gazing down at me with eyes full of the promise of life. How dare he be so eager to live? To want me to live? To expect me to want to live? Couldn't he see that there was nothing left worth the effort? Those hope filled eyes denied that. They insisted that there were reasons enough. I just had to look around to see for myself, to make a connection. The knot around my heart slipped loose a little. Enough to grant me some relief from the grip of the pain, to put the gun back in its holster where it belonged. 

We won that fight against that enemy, but there were other enemies waiting. The fight continued. The scholar and I were joined by others. Days, months, years passed filled with camaraderie, laughter, the crack of gun fire, and the clank of combat boots on a metal ramp. I found purpose in living. There was too much to accomplish to want to let go. The pain began to fade into the background noise of my soul. To my surprise, I discovered the strength to open up, to let these people into places I had thought forever buried. With them, I found acceptance, friendship, and a strange sort of peace amidst the conflicts that raged around us. These people who took their places in my heart shared their lives with me, their delights. They shared their pain, their losses. We supported each other through the trials and celebrated together the victories. Nothing was ever won easily, but we drew strength from our connection. I felt alive. The promise of life was being fulfilled in ways I could never have imagined. Across camp fires and light years, I learned to share the joy of it with those who had become my family. 

Now I sit in another room on another bed. All around me stacks of boxes are sealed and carefully labeled. Dust is beginning to settle on the headboard, the desk, the empty bookshelves. My hands spasm into fists. It is hard to breathe around the knot in my chest. My eyes burn. The silence in the room is deafening. The grief wells up and crashes against me, swamping my soul. I gasp, drowning in pain. 

Then I hear muffled footsteps on the carpet in the hall. Someone is opening the door. Dark eyes beneath a glint of gold watch me as I struggle to fight back the wave of loss. He waits in silence, lending his strength as he shares the pain. Behind him a woman stands in the hall, arms wrapped protectively around herself. Her expressive eyes say more than her words possibly could. I gather myself up and join them. It is time to go. We're finished here. 

finis   


* * *

>   
> © December 19, 2000  
> The characters mentioned in this story are the property of Showtime and Gekko Film Corp.  
> The Stargate, SG-I, the Goa'uld and all other characters  
> who have appeared in the series STARGATE SG-1 together with the names,   
> titles and backstory are the sole copyright property of MGM-UA Worldwide Television,   
> Gekko Film Corp, Glassner/Wright Double Secret Productions and Stargate SG-I Prod. Ltd.   
> Partnership.  
> This fanfic is not intended as an infringement upon those rights and   
> solely meant for entertainment.   
> All other characters, the story idea and the story itself   
> are the sole property of the author.   
> 

  


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